The day I wasn’t in school wasn’t because of some exciting holiday or my usual mischievous antics. Nope, this time it was chicken pox—what I now fondly refer to as the “red dot era” of my childhood. And before you get any ideas, let me clear things up. It wasn’t one of those dramatic, life-altering illnesses. These days, chicken pox is practically a rite of passage for every kid, right up there with losing your first tooth or learning how to ride a bike without training wheels. For me, it was so mild that you'd need a magnifying glass to spot the little red dots. Honestly, I sometimes wonder if my parents were secretly relieved, just happy to have a reason to keep me home for a few days, away from the usual chaos I brought to the house.

  Now, my mom, being a schoolteacher, had to go to work as usual. And since there wasn’t anyone else available to keep an eye on me, my dad—who had a bit of a flexible schedule—decided to take me along with him to his college. He was a lecturer at a college about 50 kilometers away, which to me sounded like a distant, mysterious world I was barely allowed to enter. For a kid like me, tagging along felt like the beginning of a grand adventure. A long bus ride, a chance to meet all sorts of new people, and the promise of a day in a world full of adults doing... well, adult things? What more could a curious kid like me possibly want?

  As we made our way to the bus stop, I could feel the excitement bubbling up inside me. Sure, the reason behind the trip wasn’t exactly glamorous, but in my young eyes, it was the perfect escape from the monotony of sick days at home. There were no boring “quiet time” activities or long hours spent staring at the walls. No, today I was headed to a real college, a place where people actually taught and learned things. I imagined all sorts of fascinating, grown-up conversations happening around me—things I could never understand, but was dying to eavesdrop on.

  The bus ride began uneventfully. We found window seats—what I considered to be the ultimate prize for any kid, especially on a long ride like this—and I settled in, eager to soak up every little detail of the journey. Outside, the city blurred by in flashes of concrete, trees, and occasional glimpses of the countryside as we made our way toward the college. The bus itself was filled with the usual crowd: office-goers hunched over their newspapers, students laughing and gossiping about whatever was trending that week, and a few passengers nodding off, heads lolling with the rhythm of the bus's rumbling engine. It was the kind of scene I had seen a hundred times before, yet today, it felt different somehow.

  And then, there was him.

  A few rows ahead, sitting quietly by the window, was the oldest man I had ever seen in my life. He looked so ancient, it was like time itself had decided to settle in his body and never leave. His hair, if you could even call it hair anymore, was so white it could blind you in the sun. It seemed to glow with an almost otherworldly brightness, like something that belonged in a forgotten fairy tale. His face was a maze of deep lines and creases, each wrinkle carved with the weight of countless years—stories of a lifetime that only he could tell, stories that, to my young, imaginative mind, felt as though they came from centuries past.

  He was clutching a wooden walking stick with both hands, his fingers wrapped around it as though it were his only connection to this world. His hands trembled slightly with age, and every time he shifted in his seat, the old bones creaked like a ship in a storm. To me, he was nothing short of a living relic, someone who might have personally signed the Declaration of Independence, or better yet, someone who had witnessed the extinction of the dinosaurs firsthand.

  In my imagination, he had lived through countless wars, seen empires rise and fall, and probably even been friends with kings and queens. There was something so fascinating about him, something that made him stand out from everyone else on that bus, even though he wasn’t doing anything extraordinary. He was simply there, existing in a way that made me feel like I was sitting next to a piece of history.

  Now, if there’s one thing about kids, it’s that our logic is delightfully absurd. The moment I spotted that frail old man, my mind went into overdrive. A series of thoughts I hadn’t quite pieced together yet flooded in, each one more ridiculous than the last. Old people die, I thought. That was a fact I had recently learned—probably from some adult somewhere, probably my mom or a teacher—and I was absolutely determined to apply it to every old person I saw. It made perfect sense in my head: they were old, therefore they were going to die soon.

  And here, sitting just a few rows ahead of me, was the perfect case study: Exhibit A—the ancient man. I couldn’t help myself; I stared at him with a mixture of curiosity, fascination, and, well... pity. My young brain was already imagining his "final moments," which, to be honest, probably wasn’t the healthiest line of thought for a kid who was just along for a bus ride. But hey, what can I say? Kids are weird.

  How long does he have left? I wondered. Is it days? Weeks? Months? The clock seemed to tick faster in my head as I imagined time running out for him. What must it feel like, knowing he was so close to… you know… the end? I shuddered just a little. The poor guy must’ve noticed my intense stare because, right then, he turned toward me and—wait for it—smiled. A warm, kind smile that completely threw me off my entire train of thought.

  Hold on. Smile? How could he smile? Doesn’t he know he’s about to die? I blinked, completely confused by the contradiction. How could someone so ancient, so obviously near the end of their days, still smile at a random kid on a bus? This was perplexing. Was he in denial? Maybe he was just unaware of his own fate. Or, even crazier, did he know something I didn’t? Was he secretly a wizard who had somehow outsmarted death itself, using ancient spells to keep himself alive indefinitely? That would explain everything, right?

  Unable to contain my burning curiosity, I turned to my dad, who was deeply engrossed in some important-looking papers. I mean, they were important because they had a lot of squiggly lines and words that didn’t make any sense to me. To me, they looked like a personal challenge—a test to see how badly I could interrupt his concentration. And, well, challenge accepted.

  “Dad! Dad!” I tugged on his sleeve with all the urgency of someone defusing a bomb, because in my mind, this was an emergency. If I didn’t ask this question right now, the ancient man might just disappear into the ether, and I would be left wondering forever.

  “What is it?” he asked, startled, clearly not expecting a major crisis to erupt in the middle of his reading.

  I leaned in close, almost conspiratorially, took a deep breath, and then asked the most profound and life-altering question I could think of in that moment: “Dad, he’s old. He’s going to die, right?”

  Now, let me pause here for dramatic effect. Picture a bus full of mildly bored passengers, the kind who wouldn’t blink twice at a mild traffic jam. Then imagine a curious kid, who somehow manages to yell something so shocking that it shatters the silence like a firecracker going off in a library. That was me. A completely innocent question, but one that cut through the everyday hum of bus life like a knife through butter.

  The reaction was instant and intense. Heads whipped around, necks craned like owls, and suddenly, every pair of eyes on that bus was locked onto me. Even the ancient man, who had been minding his own business and probably wondering why I was staring at him so intently, turned to look at me. His eyes were wide with disbelief, like he’d just witnessed a small bomb explode in the middle of the bus.

  For a brief, spine-tingling moment, there was a silence so profound you could hear the faint hum of the bus engine in the background, like the universe itself had pressed "pause" to absorb the sheer awkwardness of the situation.

  And then, chaos.

  The entire bus erupted in laughter, as if a switch had been flipped. It was like someone had cracked the funniest joke in the history of comedy, and suddenly, everyone was in on it. People were clutching their stomachs, wiping away tears, and laughing so hard they nearly fell out of their seats. It was the kind of contagious laughter that makes you wonder if they all had a secret pact to start giggling at the same time.

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  Even the conductor, who I was convinced had never cracked a smile in his entire life, was doubled over with laughter. This guy had a permanent scowl etched into his face, like he was born with it. Yet there he was, laughing like he’d just heard the funniest joke in the world—like he had somehow just discovered the joy of humor for the first time.

  But here’s the thing: I didn’t get the joke. I was dead serious. I had just asked a simple, logical question, one that was grounded in fact and made perfect sense to me. How could they all be laughing about something so... grim? So undeniably true? It was like I had stumbled upon some ancient wisdom that was just too much for the grown-ups to handle.

  And the old man? He was laughing the hardest of them all. His shoulders shook with each chuckle, and he had to wipe his eyes with a handkerchief, clearly moved by the hilarity of my inquiry. It was like he had been waiting for someone to ask that question his entire life and was now thoroughly enjoying the moment.

  Meanwhile, I sat there, utterly confused, and just a little annoyed. What’s so funny? I thought. I just asked a valid question—a simple, factual observation that was clearly not getting the respect it deserved. Why was no one taking me seriously?

  My dad, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to crawl under the seat and never come out again. His face turned a shade of red that I didn’t even know was possible, a mix of embarrassment and frustration. He leaned down, his voice low and urgent, as though trying to make sure no one else heard him. “Son, you can’t just say things like that!” he whispered, his eyes darting nervously around at the other passengers.

  “But it’s true, right?” I whispered back, genuinely baffled, like I was asking him the most obvious question in the world.

  “Not the point!” he hissed, shaking his head so hard it looked like it might fall off.

  The rest of the bus ride was a blur of awkwardness. The laughter eventually died down, but the energy in the air felt different. I could still feel eyes glancing at me, the faint sound of chuckles drifting through the bus. The grown-ups had moved on, but they hadn’t really moved on, you know? I could still feel the laughter lingering like some kind of invisible cloud.

  Then, just when I thought the whole ordeal was finally behind me, the old man turned around in his seat and gave me a thumbs-up. It was the kind of gesture that somehow made me feel a little better about the whole situation, as though I’d passed some secret test and earned the approval of this ancient, mysterious figure. Maybe, just maybe, he thought I was onto something with my brutal honesty. Or maybe he just liked the fact that I had shaken up the bus a little. Either way, it made me feel like I wasn't completely out of place.

  Amid all the chaos, something strange started happening. It was like I wasn’t just a kid on a bus anymore, surrounded by laughing adults. No, I suddenly felt like I was trapped inside a weird, swirling world where everything was off-kilter. The bus seemed to tilt and spin, as though the whole world around me was rotating in a dizzying, never-ending cycle. The more I tried to focus, the more everything around me seemed to blur.

  Then, in my rapidly spinning mind, the old man—who had once seemed like just a harmless, ancient relic—transformed into something far more sinister. He wasn’t just some old guy anymore. No, he was a wizard, and I was absolutely certain that he had put some kind of illusory spell on me. The world was warping, twisting, and I could feel my stomach doing somersaults. The nausea hit me in waves, so intense that I could hardly keep my eyes open.

  Suddenly, panic overtook me, and I could no longer hold it in. Tears welled up in my eyes as the room seemed to spin even faster. I cried out in a small, panicked voice, “Dad, save me! I’m going to die! That evil wizard is gonna kill me!”

  My dad, probably struggling to understand what was going on in my whirling brain, looked at me with confusion. He asked, his voice soft but concerned, “Why, son? What’s wrong?”

  But my mind wasn’t in a place where I could offer simple explanations. The panic and fear had taken over, and all I could do was shout, my voice cracking with the weight of my convictions, “I asked him when he was going to die, and he put a magic spell on me! Can’t you see? He’s controlling everything!” I pointed frantically at the old man, my eyes wide with terror, my heart racing as the world continued to spin around me.

  “He’s probably some evil necromancer!” I continued, my voice growing louder and more desperate. “A succubus, living by sucking the life out of other people. I angered him, and now he wants to take my life!”

  The words felt true in my mind, even though I knew—somewhere deep down—that they didn’t make any sense. But the dizziness, the nausea, the feeling of the world turning upside down made it all seem so real.

  And then, of course, the entire bus erupted in laughter again, louder this time, like my outburst had been the punchline to an unseen joke that everyone else was in on.

  My dad, his face turning a deep shade of red from embarrassment, put his hands on my shoulders and leaned in close, speaking softly, but urgently. “You’re feeling motion sickness, Ethan. It’s okay. Just sit here and try not to think too much about it.”

  Motion sickness. That was the explanation he had, but in my swirling mind, it seemed like an absurd afterthought. How could motion sickness cause me to see the world spinning like this? How could it explain that I was under the spell of an ancient, life-draining wizard? But I couldn’t argue, because my dad clearly didn’t believe in magic.

  So, I sat there, still feeling like I was in the midst of a mystical battle I could never win. The world was spinning, the laughter was echoing in my ears, and all I wanted was for the ground to stop moving.

  When we finally reached my dad’s college, I practically leapt off the bus, eager to escape the stares and whispers that seemed to linger like an invisible cloud over my head. The adventure of the morning had been far too much for me to process, and now all I wanted was to escape the scrutiny and find something, anything, to distract myself.

  And what better way to do that than by exploring the college campus? It was like stepping into a completely different world, one I had never seen before, and I was ready to dive in headfirst. I didn’t waste a single second. Without so much as a glance at my dad, who was still trying to collect his dignity after the bus incident, I sprinted off into the unknown.

  I dashed through the campus garden, my feet pounding against the gravel paths, the air filled with the scent of flowers and fresh grass. The plants seemed so... sophisticated, like they had been carefully cultivated by people who knew what they were doing. In my mind, I was some sort of botanical expert as I plucked a few leaves from the nearest bushes—don’t ask why, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe I thought I was collecting souvenirs, or perhaps I was just doing it because I could. It didn’t matter. I was free, and the world was mine to explore.

  I peeked into classrooms, my eyes wide as I caught glimpses of students scribbling away in notebooks, listening to lectures I couldn’t understand. I had no idea what any of it was about, but the sight of older students sitting in rows, nodding along as the professor spoke, made me feel like I was a part of something much bigger.

  And then, my curiosity led me to the ultimate destination: the principal’s office. I had no idea what went on in there, but it had that mysterious, slightly ominous aura that only a principal’s office can have. It was probably filled with important papers, disciplinary records, and grown-ups talking seriously about grown-up things. I figured, why not take a quick detour? I didn’t knock, of course, but I peeked through the half-open door. The principal wasn’t there, but I could imagine all sorts of top-secret meetings happening inside.

  By the time we got home that evening, I was utterly exhausted but strangely happy. My legs ached from all the running around, and my mind was still buzzing with the thrill of exploring my dad's college. I had completely forgotten about the old man and my "serious" question—until, that is, a few days later, when the phone call came.

  It was the principal of my dad’s college, and there was a certain… tone to his voice. It was one of those tones that makes you sit up straight, like you know you’re about to hear something that will change your entire day.

  “H-Henry,” he said, his voice sounding unusually strained. “I have a question for you. I’ve never met anyone with chicken pox before, but... how did I catch it?”

  I froze, my stomach doing a little flip. I could practically hear the beads of sweat forming on my dad’s forehead as he realized what had happened. The truth was dawning on him, slowly, like a lightbulb flickering to life in the back of his mind. Apparently, my little “red dot era” wasn’t as harmless as we had assumed. The principal, in all his academic wisdom, had somehow caught chicken pox from me. And now, he was frantically trying to figure out how on earth it had happened.

  My dad’s face turned several shades of red, like a tomato being microwaved. I swear, if you had put a thermometer next to his face, it would’ve read "boiling point." He sputtered something about “viral infections,” “unpredictable kids,” and “didn’t realize the extent of it,” all while trying not to choke on the awkwardness of the situation. I’m pretty sure the principal was equally flabbergasted on the other end of the line.

  When my dad hung up, he looked like he’d just run a marathon—exhausted and defeated. He turned to me, half-smiling but mostly frowning, and just shook his head.

  Meanwhile, I couldn’t help but imagine the principal sitting there, scratching his head (and probably everything else), trying to figure out how a perfectly normal day at work had turned into an itchy nightmare. How do you even begin to process that?

  Looking back now, I like to think I left a lasting impression on everyone involved—the bus passengers, my dad’s colleagues, and definitely the principal. After all, it’s not every day you encounter a kid who manages to deliver both a philosophical question and a contagious disease in the same week. I’d like to think it was a memorable day for everyone… even if they didn’t exactly thank me for it.

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